Things That Go Bump in the Night

**********
Chapter Three
**********


Willow looked up suddenly from the paper she'd been furiously scribbling on. "I think I've done it!" she exclaimed excitedly.

"Really?" Tara asked, uncrossing her legs and sliding off the bed to join Willow at the table. "How did you cancel out the happiness clause without creating a hole in the curse?"

"Actually, it was really rather simple," Willow said, grinning ear to ear. "Well, once I figured out what the problem was," she continued sheepishly, pointing out the changes she'd made.

Tara nodded, her own shy smile growing as she read through Willow's altered incantation. "That might actually work." Tara frowned suddenly. "What's this?"

"It's part of the anchoring," Willow replied, eagerly warming to her subject. "Once the soul has been called, it binds the demon and the soul together. As long as one is present, the other will be as well."

Tara shook her head slowly. "Yeah, it might," she admitted, "but I'm not so sure that that's exactly what it will do, or at least that's not *all* it will do."

"Sure it will," Willow insisted, pointing to the third line of her changes. "See here?"

"Yes, I see it, and it's really quite clever," Tara said, smiling encouragingly. "I'm j-just not sure it's going to have the effect you want."

Tara's insistence beginning to worry her, Willow bit her lip in consternation, and carefully reread her changes. Finally she looked back up. "What do you think it will do?"

Tara shrugged uncertainly. "I'm not sure really. It's obviously soul related, but it just seems a little . . . open ended--you know?" Her voiced trailed off for a moment. "T-then again, it may do exactly what you want it to." She looked up at Willow suddenly, her eyes wide and startled. "You're not going to try it on Angel are you?" she asked, horror filling her voice.

"No!" Willow exclaimed, shaking her head. "I'd never do that, not until after I know for sure it would work. No, I'm going to try it on someone that if it fails, it won't make any difference. I don't want to cause any new problems."

"Who?"

Willow smiled. "He doesn't have a soul, but he's not dangerous, well, not anymore anyway."

Tara gasped and stuttered out her reply. "S-S-Spike?!"

"Yep," Willow nodded, "he's perfect for it."

"He's g-gonna be so p-pissed."

"No, he won't," Willow insisted. "If it works, he'll be better off than he is now, what with the chip and all, and if it doesn't, he'll never know the difference."

"Huh? Why would he be better off? He's not dangerous to humans now, but he doesn't feel the w-weight of all the evil things he's done. If you're successful, he will."

"But don't you see," Willow pleaded, "right now, he's like a wild animal caged inside his own mind. Sooner or later that could drive him crazy. He's definitely not happy about it. He even tried to kill himself once."

"He did?"

Willow nodded. "It was really disturbing. I mean, to see someone who was usually *so* sure of himself, *that* depressed, was just unbelievable."

Tara visibly hesitated, then spoke almost too quietly to hear. "You're planning on doing this now?"

"Oh, no," Willow replied instantly. "I'll double check the part that has you worried first, but I do want to do this tonight, if at all possible."

Tara nodded slowly, somewhat eased by Willow's assertion that she wouldn't do it without making sure first.

*****

Spike steered him toward an old iron wrought gate, and Methos' eyebrows shot upward in surprise. "Do you always take short cuts through cemeteries?" he asked drily. Most people weren't on as friendly terms with the places as Immortals were.

Spike stopped, turned around, and faced him squarely, an odd expression on his face. "Are you going to be demanding explanations all night," he asked, placing a finger across Methos' lips, "or are you going to relax and enjoy yourself?"

Methos head the challenge, as well as a hint of impatience in Spike's voice, and knew it was a line being drawn. He had a choice, he could get answers, or he could enjoy more . . . earthy pleasures. If he could check his curiosity at the door, so to speak, he could enjoy the thrill of the danger he could sense hidden below Spike's casual mask.

Needing to know 'everything' was vastly overrated, he decided suddenly. So, shoving aside his need to understand, he grinned. "Lead on," he said, lowering his voice to a husky whisper. If he still wanted answers, there was always tomorrow to ask the questions.

Spike grinned triumphantly at him, whirled around on one foot and strode off. "Come on, then," he called out.

Methos didn't immediately follow, instead, he watched. Spike didn't walk off as much as stalk -- rather like a panther on the prowl, Methos thought. Belatedly he started forward, still eyeing the form in front of him. He could almost see the sleek muscles as they worked in concert to create Spike's graceful, cat-like moves. Oh, yes, tonight should be one he wouldn't forget anytime soon.

Ahead of him, Spike ducked around the corner of a crypt, and slipped into the shadows. Methos hurried to catch up, not wanting to lose sight of Spike for longer than necessary. While he normally enjoyed the very protective nature of holy ground, cemeteries included, tonight he shivered. Something about this place was making him jumpy, reminding him of ages past, when the night was something to be feared. Snorting at himself, he supposed it was simply all a part of the mood.

Following the well-worn path beside the stone crypt, Methos froze half way around the building, the sounds of a fight bringing his head around sharply. He could hear no sound of metal on metal, nor could he sense an Immortal signature. He took an automatic step forward before stopping again as the night suddenly descended into an unnatural silence. Almost immediately the feeling of being watched returned, and he quickly resumed moving along the path.

"Damn!" he muttered softly, chastising himself. "Looking over my shoulder in a cemetery at night--how much more cliche can I get?"

Round the front, Methos still saw no sign of the man he was supposed to be with, and he frowned as he looked around. **What's next? Vampires?** he thought, instantly shaking his head at letting his imagination ruay way with him. He was letting the oddities of the night spook him.

Hands landed on his shoulders, and Methos jumped, his heart leaping as a throaty chuckle sounded behind him. "Bloody hell, Spike! You startled the life out of me!" he grouched.

Spike's chuckle sounded again, low and warm. "Not quite, Pet," he said quietly, humor dancing along his words. Before Methos could turn to face the other man, Spike's arms slipped around his waist, pulling him close. Behind him, Spike tensed for a split second, but relaxed before he pulled back, leaving Methos wondering what had momentarily bothered him.

"After you," Spike said, before Methos could ask, indicating the open doorway into the crypt. "Don't let the outside fool you."

**A crypt?** Methos thought in protest. **What was it I thought earlier about vampires?** This was getting just a little *too* strange. **What the hell,** he thought suddenly. He'd already gone this far, why not see the whole show? He stepped forward and into the dark, dusty room. Okay, he'd seen worse places--today, even--but maybe he should suggest--

"Not much to look at, I admit," Spike said, once again interrupting Methos' thoughts. Slipping past him, the blond continued, "but it's home sweet home.

Methos watched in silence as Spike moved deeper into th room, wondering exactly how he could suggest an alternate place politely, when Spike stopped at what appeared to be a trapdoor.

Opening it easily, Spike looked back toward Methos. "It's much more homey downstairs," he said. "Oh, and as much as I admire a man who's smart enough to go around this quaint little town of horrors armed to the teeth, I'd appreciate it if you left the arsenal you've got hidden under that coat of yours up here." Having said that, he shrugged out of his out leather duster and draped it neatly over the solitary chair.

Arms held out from his sides, Spike turned in a slow circle until he was once again facing Methos. "I'm unarmed, as you can see," he quipped with another smirk that Methos could barely see in the dim light provided by the moon. Before he could respond, either negatively or positively, however, Spike jumped, neatly dropping himself to the hidden underground level, disappearing from sight.

Startled, Methos let out a strangle, "Spike!" and jumped forward instinctively. The darkness below him lit up just as he reached the opening, and he shook his head upon seeing an unharmed, still smirking Spike looking up at him patiently--from a a good twelve feet below.

**It's doable,** Methos thought uneasily, suddenly feeling like a young boy being dared to jump down from a tree limb that was just a little too high for comfort. **If I swung down and grabbed the ledge on my way, that'd leave only about a five foot drop,** he thought assessively. The only other concern he had was leaving his sword up here. He didn't mind the other stuff so much. His sword, though. . . .

"Come on, then," Spike urged after Methos hadn't moved for several minutes. "Your stuff will be right as rain up there. No one will bother it."

**I've heard *that* before.** Calling himself six kinds of idiot, Methos shucked his coat, and laying it carefully out on the stone floor, he sat at the edge of the hold dro dropped his legs over the edge. Then, quickly, before he could think better of it, he slipped off the side, twisting to grab hold as he dropped. Taking a deep breath, he let go, preparing to roll as he hit bottom.

He never hit. He gasped in surprise when Spike caught him effortlessly around the ribs and easily lowered him the rest of the way to the floor.

Spike's smirk grew.

**Doesn't the man have any other expression?**

"Didn't think I'd catch you, did you?"

Methos shook his head. "No, I can't say as that though even crossed my mind," he replied honestly.

Letting out a full laugh, Spike jerked him close. "I'm stronger than I look."

"I'll say," Methos muttered just before Spike's mouth descended to his, cutting off anything else he might have said. Methos leaned into the kiss, reveling in the uniquely cool feel of Spike's mouth. **Cool?** He reached up, cupping Spike's jaw, and pulled the man even closer--until their bodies were fully pressed against one another. Gasping as the hands that gripped his waist tightened further, and lifted him until his feet no longer touched the ground. Even more surprising was that Spike's arms held him steady and firm, without even a single trace of a tremble.

As soon as Spike began moving, Methos instinctively tightened his grip, but didn't stop his soft moan as the casual display of strength sent unexpected flashes of liquid fire from his gut straight to his groin. Gasping in surprise, he jerked his head back, suddenly unable to catch his breath.

"Yes, Pet, *feel* it," Spike murmured, his voice a hoarse purr as his lips descended to tantalize Methos' neck, trailing moist cool kisses from right below his earlobe all the way down to his shoulder.

Just as Methos felt the bed bump into the back of his legs, Spike sent him down gently, and he dropped his head to the side--all the better to allow Spike free access to his throat. Methos shivered as the man holding him growled low in his chest. Completely intoxicated with the unique feel of the man holding him, Methos could do nothing more than ride the feelings. Then, suddenly, Methos was left feeling bereft as Spike let go.

He immediately reached out to pull Spike back, but was stopped when his sweater, quickly followed by his shirt, was roughly pulled over his head. The cold night air raised instant goosebumps across his skin, the sudden extra stimulation hardening his nipples instantly.

Spike ducked down, and lightly grasping one taut nipple, rolled it gently between his teeth, then soothing it with slow circles of his tongue. It was *so* cold against his now overheated flesh. **Does he suck ice cubes all day, or what?** came Methos' incredulous thought.

With hands that wouldn't stop trembling, Methos reached out and slid the unbuttoned red shirt off Spike's shoulders. It fell unheeded to the ground when Spike stepped back. Methos' eyes fluttered open just as Spike's hands returned, only to find himself being tossed backward onto the bed. Unable to stop the sound, he let out a startled yelp at the unexpected movement.

Hovering above him, Spike leered at the sound, quickly jerking his black T-shirt over his head and tossing it to the side. As Methos watched, his breath held in anticipation, Spike knelt on the end of the bed and slowly crawled his way up toward Methos.

Methos' eyes widened, and his tongue darted out to wet lips gone dry. **Gods! The man can *prowl* while crawling!** His breath caught in his throat again as the image of being the prey in a deadly hunt came insistently to mind. His heart beating loudly in his chest, he watched as Spike's tongue mimicked his own, darting out and tracing a slow, sensual path over his lips. Then he stopped thinking altogether as Spike's head dipped down, and a talented mouth nipped and licked its way up from his abdomen, finding and teasing nerve-endings Methos had long forgotten he possessed.

He moaned as that same mouth continued its path, stopping to slowly torment both nipples to a nearly painful tightness. He ran his hands over Spike's shoulders and down his arms, caressing what skin he could reach. When that was no longer enough, Methos grabbed tightly onto the muscular arms and pulled Spike toward him. "Come here," he demanded hoarsely.

Spike willingly complied, and Methos ran his hands down the bared expanse of Spike's back, down past his waist and over the jeans-covered ass. Pulling Spike closer, he gasped as the younger man went straight for his throat, lathing every inch with slow moist breaths, nimble lips and tongue. He shivered at the light grazing of teeth across the pulse points of his neck.

**Gods, the man has neck fetish!** Methos thought happily as his body turned to liquid under the other's ministrations. **That's okay, though," he thought. "So do I.** Other thoughts tried to surface -- strange thoughts, but his body's demands kept pushing them aside. Who cared if this man was different in odd ways? Not him, not as long as he kept up . . . **gasp** . . . that!

Methos gave up trying to think and let himself simply feel -- feel the man's skin under his callused fingers and palms as he learned every contour of the lean hard body above his -- feel the man's hands on *his* body -- working the buckle to his belt, and sliding his jeans off. Methos arched up as Spike's mouth followed the path of his hands, and he swore softly as Spike moved out of range, leaving him unable to reciprocate any of the touches.

Even before he could finish thinking of sitting up, however; Spike placed a hand squarely in the middle of his chest, fingers splayed, and kept him firmly where he was. Frustration was instantly swept aside, though, as Spike's lips slipped around the head of his cock. And a moment later, as he was fully surrounded by the moist, cool mouth, leaving him gasping for breath again, his fingers rhythmically clenched and unclenched through the blond's hair.

"Gods!" Methos gasped out, nearly incoherent. His perceptions narrowed sharply until all he could sense was the slow glide of moist caresses, the tongue curling around him, the teeth that lightly grazed across the ridge below the head of his cock, just before the mouth plunged back down to completely engulf him once again. Up slowly, again, down swiftly; Spike alternated strong suction and light licks, driving Methos to the edge -- and keeping him there.

Again and again, Spike repeated his actions, never settling into any specific rhythm.

Clenching his teeth against a whimper, Methos pulled at Spike's shoulder. "Spike," he whispered. The whimper he'd been holding back escaped when Spike complied, and released him. The smile on the man's face as he settled beside Methos was enough to tell the Immortal that he'd been heard, but he ignored it, his own smile growing. He was finally going to get his chance to taste the man beside him. It was *his* turn to torment and tease.

Leaning down, he did just that, paying close attention to the same places Spike had labored over. He grinned when Spike tilted his chin up, just slightly, and Methos closed his lips over the jugular, sucking hard. He stiffened slightly as an odd thought tried to flitter through his mind. Something was wrong. He just needed a moment. . . .

Spike, however, had other ideas. With a sound that seemed a cross between a growl and a purr, Spike rolled them over until his body lay across Methos' pinning him effectively. "No thinking allowed," Spike taunted quietly into the Immortal's ear before pulling back and quickly divesting himself of his pants.

Within seconds Spike was back, his hands once again teasing and seductive, his mouth never lingering in any one spot. Methos again gave himself over to the other man, there would be time later to give -- and to think. When a slick finger slipped between his legs to tease around his entrance, Methos gasped. **When did he grab lube?** was his last coherent thought.